9: Boyhood
by Math Girl
Summary: School troubles, from John's perspective. Alternate universe, still.
1. Default Chapter

BOYHOOD

_I'mpekkable: Aww...! And after I sent him to speech classes!_

1

Had anyone troubled to describe John Tracy, assuming anyone outside the family knew him well enough to _try_, they'd have said, after a moment's thought, that he was a great deal like his father; Calm, and occasionally ruthless. Thinking further, they'd have reached for words like _cold, proud, brilliant, solitary _and, especially, _beautiful_ ( ...if that last word didn't sound too soft. John was like a flawless diamond; you might want to admire him, but you'd freeze to death, expecting any corresponding warmth.)

That matters had once been different would have surprised most; his professors, doctoral thesis advisor, and half brother, Alan, with whom he had far more in common than the younger boy realized. What _hadn't_ changed was the emotional distance, the lack of much communication with, or interest in, others. What _had_ changed might have filled the family Bible, though it wasn't deemed safe to discuss. It all came down, like real estate, to location. The west, with all its sere beauty, simply hadn't suited him. The forthright, 'here-and-now' denizens, still less.

Very little went right for him there, _especially _school, where he fit in like an emerald in a bubble-gum machine:

Candace Flowers was Burlington Jr. High School's one and only guidance counselor. A kindly woman, she was slightly overweight, slightly overworked, and more than slightly irritated with the quiet, unresponsive teenager who slouched into her small office that day and folded himself into the threadbare seat before her desk. He did not, she was completely unsurprised to note, look up; resting his thin forearms on his thighs and gazing, instead, at the stained grey carpet. She knew him fairly well, having hired him a time or two to help her son pitch hay to the horses, or do a bit of fence repair. He got the job done, on time and without complaint. As a ranch hand, though, he'd have made a damn fine accountant. But he wasn't here about odd jobs.

Once again, it was behavior. He just didn't make any sense. Test results that scorched the stratosphere, combined with all the motivation of something flat and blind lurking in sea mud. (Scotch that- most worms put in at least a _little _effort. They'd have starved to death, otherwise..., but someone kept feeding John.)

Candace sighed, tucked a strand of stubborn, red-brown hair back into its sloppy bun, and began her pitch. This time, she decided to try cheerfulness. Nothing else seemed to be working...

"Good morning, John! How are you, today?"

He shrugged. Too well brought up to completely ignore her stab at conversation, the 15 year old looked up through his pale blond hair and said,

"Okay."

Sure. She nodded, fiddling with a pencil, and staring at the boy's cumulative file as though it held some answers. BurlingtonMiddle School was tiny (housed in the same building, in fact, as Burlington High School), and in a student population _that _small, someone as determinedly non-conformist as John Tracy tended to stand out. He'd been caught cutting class, for the fifth time, and it was only mid-September. ...And this year, Candace just didn't feel up to another pitched battle with the Immovable Object. His string of "Fs" and behavior referrals extended clear back to elementary school, where he'd at least deigned to show up a few days a week. Repeating to herself, _'Every child can learn,' _and still trying for optimism, Candace jumped into the breach once more.

"Well..., you've got a 'C' in metal shop, so far. That's something." Then, as he entirely failed to respond, "John, do you _want _to spend the rest of your life in the seventh grade!"

He shrugged again, bleak and withdrawn. If there was a key to John Tracy, Candace Flowers hadn't found it, after four years of earnest searching. Exasperated, she shook her head, lips tightly pursed.

"I just can't believe you're actually _related_ to Scott Tracy!" she snapped, patience evaporating along with the morning's caffeine buzz. "Now _there's_ a young man with some drive and ambition! He's going places, mark my words, John, while you're gonna end up walking your grandkids to school, _'cause you're in the same grade!"_

She thought, for just a moment there, that he almost smiled, but then the flash of expression was gone again, just as quick as she'd imagined it. Not that it was easy to see or imagine anything through the lowered eyes and screen of longish blond hair with which John avoided the universe.

"Push that hair out of your face, why don't you?" Candace grumped. "You have such beautiful eyes, John. Why are you always trying to hide them!"

He gave her a brief, unreadable look, then dropped his gaze again, muttering,

"I don't know, Mrs. Flowers."

The counselor puffed out a long, tired sigh, aware that she was once more losing the battle, the war..., and her professional cool. Leaning back in her squeaking chair, she closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples with both freckled hands.

"Fine. You know what, John? Keep on building walls and setting up barriers if you want to, but it's gonna get awful lonely in there, and one of these days, folks are gonna stop trying to get through. They'll just walk off and leave you like you thought you wanted..., all alone, for the rest of your life."

Then, opening her eyes and pulling a pink hall-pass from the mess on her desk, Candace wrote up a brief note. "Go back to class. The _right _class, this time! I'll talk to Mr. Mathers about reducing that in-school suspension. And, John...?"

He'd gotten up and accepted the pass, but paused, one hand on the door knob, to hear her parting comment,

"...Give people a chance, will you? You'd be surprised how much they have to offer, if you just let 'em in? And please try to color inside the lines, for once. I'd _really_ like to go a week without having to call you down here..., okay? _Huh?"_

A swift flash of blue-violet from behind silver blond hair, a quiet,

"Yes, Ma'am. If I can," and then he was gone. For now.

Candace added a note to the bottom of his cumulative folder, already jammed with the crabbed handwriting and frustrated comments of a legion of bewildered educators, then set the file aside. She knew better than to put it away entirely, though. The week was young, and John Matthew Tracy never long out of trouble.


	2. Chapter 2: About a Girl

_Still alternate universe, so John here is not as he is usually portrayed..._

2

John slouched off through the deserted halls of his Wyoming public school, head down, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a big, black tee shirt; overlarge, but it had belonged to Scott, and helped hide how thin he was. Helped hide him, period.

It would have been overstating the case to say that he hated school... More accurately, John had a well-developed avoidance reflex for a place where bored teachers took an interesting topic and beat it to gummy paste before students who couldn't have cared less. Once or twice, first time round the fifth grade, he'd made a comment in class, only to find that it confused his teacher and irritated his classmates, who just didn't get it. So he'd shut up... permanently. What the hell difference did it make, anyway? Not like anyone really _wanted _his opinion. Not here.

They were struggling to memorize protons, neutrons and electrons, while he longed to discuss string theory, and the tenth-dimensional geometry of Calabi-Yau spaces. But, who gave a shit? Not him.

The school had once housed a much larger population, but had fallen on bleak days, as folk moved away and ranches sold out to the government food cooperatives. Now, there were dozens of classrooms standing empty, shadowed stairwells where he could wait out the school day in peace and solitude. He'd sort of promised Mrs. Flowers he'd try to sit through class, though.

All at once the bell rang, taking matters out of John's hands. Two girls from the high school side, Christy Cuthbert and her best friend Tabitha Lake, turned a far corner, spotting the silent boy before he saw them.

_"Omigod!" _Christy, in the first full flower of black-maned cheerleader sexiness, hissed to her pretty companion, "There he is! He is _so _hot!"

Tabitha, all copper hair and long legs, rolled her blue eyes.

"John Tracy...? _Hot! _Girl, you need help."

Christy stuck to her guns. She wasn't very tall, nor tremendously intellectual, but very sweet, and she'd mastered the fine art of frontier determination. Delicacy didn't last long in Big Horn County. Had to catch your young man before the sun, the wind and sheer hard work blunted the weapons nature gave you.

"Oh, yeah...?" She sniffed loftily, "So what would you call him, then, Miss _'If it ain't in a football jersey, I ain't interested_'?"

Tabitha snorted.

"How 'bout, _'freak'_, and _'loser'_? Besides," in a much more reasonable tone, "Sam 'll kill him, if he catches you talking to him, again."

Christy squared her slim shoulders. Tossing her head, she announced,

"Let _me _worry about Sam, Tabby Lake. I'll talk to John if I feel like it. Watch me."

And she did, sashaying over to the young man in question with her books balanced on one hip and a hopeful smile on her pink-lipsticked face.

"Hey, John!" She called brightly, before he could slip off. They were the same age, though he was stuck in middle school. Forever, probably. But something about the way he looked at her with that shadowed amethyst gaze released a cage full of hummingbirds in Christy's stomach. Always had.

"I was wondering...," she paused, groping for a plausible excuse for conversation, "...could you look over my math homework for me, again? It's quadratic equations, and I'm kinda stuck. I'd... I'd be real grateful." And she smiled, sort of swinging back and forth a bit with a shyly lowered head. Had John been better at reading girls, he'd have recognized an offer when he saw it, but his experience was rather limited.

What he did recognize, though, was a genuine attempt at friendship. Mrs. Flower's comment still being on his mind, heshook the hair out of his eyesand put forth a hand for the math paper. His teachers didn't realize it, but John was fully ambidexterous, and his right handwriting was different enough to allow him to complete someone else's homework without getting "spotted".

"Okay."

And that was when Sam Kemminger, Christy's very large, second-string quarterback boyfriend, blind-sided him; slamming John into the row of metal lockers that lined the nearly empty hall. He came up swinging, smashing a fist into Sam's face and bloodying the bigger boy's nose. Two of Sam's friends jumped in to help, trying to catch hold of John, who managed to evade their grasp, only to get punched in the gut. He was hurled back against the clattering lockers as Christy streaked off, calling loudly for help.

Someone seized his left arm. Instead of pulling away, John threw himself toward the guy, narrowly avoiding Sam's next punch. The big youth busted open his knuckles on the metal locker instead of John's face, but now the boy was caught and whirled around by Nate Peterson, the star running back.

Sam came forward, murder in his eyes. Bracing himself against Peterson's hefty bulk, John kicked out like a rented mule, catching Sam full in the crotch. The quarterback hit his knees, red-faced and gasping. His other toady, Patrick Ross, stepped in, meaning to deliver a long, hard lesson in respect.

Then help arrived. Kenneth Dale Flowers, a senior. He was the counselor's son, and a defensive end, big and solid as a stone wall. He thudded up with Christy, bellowing,

"Cut it out, Kemminger! Leave him alone!" (Actually, Sam Kemminger wasn't harming anyone at the moment; he was more or less curled up in the fetal position, hissing through his clenched teeth, but Nate and Patrick took notice, and released their struggling prey).

Kenneth hauled John aside, placing himself between the boy and his attackers. Quick, strong, ugly, and good clean through. That was Ken Flowers.

"He ain't done nuthin' to you, or to Christy, neither. You wanna pick on somebody, come down to the gym after school, and go a few rounds with me, jack-ass!"

Sam lifted his head with visible effort, glaring from John to Kenneth.

"Why 're ...you... protecting... this faggot..., Ken? He's trying to ... take... Christy!"

Kenneth Flowers shook his head, scowling darkly. There was a severe and serious gleam in his grey eyes that promised trouble for anyone who ignored their grim warning.

"Kemminger, you're as butt-stupid as you are mean. You want Scott in on this? He'll kick your ass up one end of this school and down the other side, all three of you! Now, beat it! Get lost, before I change my mind and tell him what's been going on!"

They obeyed, Nate and Patrick helping Sam to get up and hobble off, still glaring, snuffling and bleeding. Christy approached with an _'I'm sorry' _little grimace, reaching out to touch John's shoulder, but he twitched away, stone-faced. Whatever chance he'd halfway decided to give her, was over. Access denied. Head lowered, she drifted away down the hall in Sam's dripping wake, trying not to cry.

Ken sighed gustily, then turned to face the calm, silent boy.

"Not much hurt, are you, John? The nurse ain't here except on Thursdays, but we could always go see my mom."

"I'm fine." John wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth, adding. "He needs to make up his mind if I'm gay, or trying to steal his girlfriend. Sort of mutually exclusive..."

Ken grinned, momentarily lighting up a face as homely as bubbling mud. That he and John worked together a lot, everyone knew, but there was more than that. Oddly enough, they were friends.

"Well," Ken chuckled, "Sam's got all the brains God packed into the ass-end of a sick sheep... most of the looks, too."

Something very close to a laugh escaped John, then. His shoulders un-hunched just a bit.

"Sheep-ass takes the personality award, though," he joined in, looking up a little.

Ken cocked his head to one side, saying with earnest confusion,

"How come you never talk to no one else like this? Jokes and stuff? They'd crack up all day, if they got to know you."

That did it. Once more, John's head went down. He folded his arms across his thin chest, muttering,

"I don't want them to know me. I don't want to know _them_. Not worth it."

Truly baffled, Ken nodded.

"Sure. Don't freeze up on me, I'll drop it. You going to class...? Didn't think so. Well, catch you later, John. Stay outta trouble."

John glanced up at his friend.

"Okay. Thanks."

He wasn't much good at expressing himself, but Ken got the point. He was a bit like Grandma and Scott in that respect. Despite what Mrs. Flowers had said, there were some folk who'd never quit tapping at the wall, trying one locked door after another till they got in for a spell, bringing something of light and warmth along with them. And John treasured them for it, though he'd have died rather than admit it.


	3. Chapter 3: The Letter

3

He'd given his own names to the pointless local scenery. Not that 'Tensleep Canyon' and 'Powder River Pass' weren't evocative in their way, but they were somebody else's. John privately enjoyed picking out minor land forms and skewering them with titles like 'Damn-it's-cold Ridge', and 'Lost-Fred-Here Canal'... all part ofthe many scenic splendors of 'More-Cows-Than-Brains Basin'. Yeah. Life was good.

He walked slowly along County Lane 38, hunched against a sharp, biting wind that threatened snow. It was only one-thirty, so he took his time, planning to reach the stop just before the school bus did. Scott might yell, but he'd keep the matter private. Why not? Pick your favorite ineffectual method of dealing with utter recalcitrance, and stick to it, right?

Gravel crunched loudly, as a dusty, dark green pickup truck rumbled slowly past, pulling over to the side of the road just in front of him. _Damn_.

Johnshook thepale hair out of his eyes, hurried his pace, and took himself to the truck's forward passenger door. Lifting the handle, he climbed into the smoky, heated cab, shut the door, and sat down. Caught in the act, he could do nothing now but await sentencing.

The big old man in the driver's seat stubbed a cigarette out in the ash tray, checked the rear view, then cut back onto the road again. Clearing his throat, he said,

"Went into town to check the mail. Saw Buddy Mathers. Talked awhile."

John gave his grandfather a swift, sideways glance. Grant Tracy was silver-haired and wind tanned, with big, square hands, broad shoulders, and bright blue eyes. His voice was frog-pond deep, hoarse and scratchy from years of long-distance shouting and a lifelong addiction to cigarettes.

"I'm sorry, Sir." John replied quietly. No sense trying to excuse his own bad behavior. The principal would have told Grandad everything, and Grant Tracy would far rather hear the plain truth than any lie, however convenient. "I left school after second period and started walking home."

Grandad nodded slowly.

"So I heard." He drove another five miles through sage-covered highlands before adding, "heard something about a fight, too."

John was startled enough to look all the way over. Who had told? Not Ken, certainly..., or Christy... and he'd have thought sheer vanity would have kept Sam's mouth shut. Grant, his face unreadable, was clearly expecting a response, though, so John said,

"Just a shoving match, Grandad. Nothing serious."

Two miles later, after turning the matter over for awhile, Grant commented,

"Seems Taylor Kemminger's boy was sent home with a broken nose, and some... personal injuries. Your name come up." He lit another cigarette, smoked about half in silence, then chuckled a little. "Couldn't 've happened to a nicer guy. The apple don't fall far from the tree, John, and I've had words with Taylor afore now, goin' back to third grade; about a girl. Still...," This was a relatively long speech for the normally laconic old man. "Fightin' don't solve much. Feels good, but don't make nuthin' better."

John was confused. He'd expected punishment, not a companionable talk.

"No, Sir. Guess not."

Grant nodded again.

"Long as you remember that, and limit yourself to Kemmingers, don't guess I've much more to say." Then, reaching into his bulky suede jacket, "Sumthin' come for you. Picked it up at the post office, on my way into town." The old man pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto John's lap.

He focused on the edges, first. The battered corners, the crease that bisected one side, where the envelope had been folded between other bits of mail headed west. It was awhile before he allowed his attention to move to the center, where, printed out in ink smeared by the careless traffic of a thousand hands, were the words:

John M. Tracy

PO Box 23

Burlington, Wy 82411

Mail. _For him._ From a return address that sparked hope in his heart at the same time as it seemed to bury him under a hundred tons of ice. He looked at the envelope sitting there on his lap like a motion-triggered bomb, but dared not open it. Not in front of anyone else, anyway. It was too important.

Grandad pulled the truck over again, bringing it onto the graveled shoulder beside their own land. The house and outbuildings lay just four miles away, across a few ridges, a swift little river, and some cottonwoods. Scattered cattle, too, but they were mostly harmless,guilty of nothing worse than vague stupidity.

"Take one a' the rifles," Grandad instructed him, "and a knife, and stay outta the crick bottom, Boy. Ain't everythin' asleep yet that oughta be. Ross had a few head tore up pretty bad last week. Nuthin' left but the brand. Might be a sow fattenin' up for the winter, and I ain't fixin' to have you join the circle of life just yet. Your grandma 'd nail my hide to the smokehouse wall. Seriously. Reminds me..." He took a paper sack from the back seat and handed it over.

"Take this, and finish it, quick. Your grandma figured you ain't et nuthin, again."

Taking the rifle, a big hunting knife, the lunch, and his letter, John got out of the truck.

"John!" His grandfather was stretched out and leaning over, peering out the rolled-down passenger side window.

"Sir?"

"Good luck."

John nodded, slung the rifle, and set off to read his letter.


	4. Chapter 4: Parting

4

Scott Tracy, at 17 years of age, was a diligent scholar. No genius, maybe, but hard-working, he was already receiving literature from half a dozen western colleges and universities. He had his heart set on the Air Force Academy, though he kept the ambition to himself. More mature and pensive than most boys his age, Scott Tracy was his brothers' best friend and defender; both John, 15, and Virgil, the younger by two years. Not youngest. He'd never been able, in eight long years, to call Virgil the youngest, any more than he'd been able to call Gennine "mom".

He was a good-looking young man, with dark hair, deep blue eyes, and an arrestingly handsome face, but he was far too driven to pay much attention to girls. Scott Aaron Tracy was very conscious of a larger world out there somewhere, and his own painful need to make a difference in it. For mom's sake, and Gordon's.

Stalking toward the "fort" with Virgil ( both armed, alert, and dressed in several warm layers of flannel, wool and leather), he seemed already over-burdened with responsibility, and rather tense. According to grandad, John'd had nothing onbut jeans and a thin tee shirt. Nowhere near enough for a night outdoors, in September. The western horizon was a glory of silhouetted hills and golden fire, the house a violet shadow threading smoke into the still, cold air. Night tended to fall with a nearly audible crash up here, the atmosphere being so thin, and temperatures to drop like a stalled jet. They needed to find him. Soon.

Hopefully, John was in the little copse of cottonwoods they'd long ago taken to using as a meeting house. If not, they'd have to saddle up, or break out the four-wheelers and hunt their restless brother down.

Virgil, striding alongside, looked far more relaxed, and entirely at home. Handsome in his own blunt, dark-eyed way, he took after grandad, and Scott doubted he'd ever willingly leave home.

They reached the hollow, with its artesian seep and leafless cottonwoods. The fort. John was there, all right, seated on one of the four gnarled stumps they'd nailed boards to, all those years ago. Four seats, because three would have been incomplete. Three would have admitted a loss that no one was willing to accept. Gordon wasn't physically present, but he wasn't forgotten, either; his opinion considered, and voted on, in every important boyhood matter. (_Lost_, was all their father had said; _swept away_. He'd never been buried, like mom. So, alive he remained, until they got proof, which hadn't happened yet.)There were even surreptitious birthday parties in the fort, which grandma connived at, baking chocolate cakes (Gordon's favorite flavor, they'd decided, after due consideration) and going into town every February 14th to buy the chosen gift. Grandad shook his head, and looked the other way, but he kept the matter quiet, finding nothing of note to report to father, during his twice-weekly phone calls. Not about the parties, the missing person adverts, or John's unending school troubles.

Their brother looked up as they approached, a strange expression on his pallid face.

"Dinner's about ready," Scott said, relieved, but matter-of-fact. "You coming in?"

"In a minute."

"Good news?" Virgil inquired artlessly. He knew there 'd been a letter for John, but not who from, nor why. Still, mail was always interesting, no matter the reason.

John didn't answer directly, holding out some sort of form letter for inspection. Scott took it, held it up to the fading light, and read aloud,

_"Dr. Melissa Kahn, PhD... Princeton University, Department of_ _Advanced Placement Studies... Dear Mr. Tracy; thank you for your interest in Princeton University. It is our pleasure to inform you that your application to the advanced placement program has ... been accepted. We... look forward to..." _Scott stopped reading, re-folded the letter and handed it back.

"You're leaving," he accused, very quietly.

Virgil scowled.

"Princeton?" He demanded, "That's in England, isn't it?"

"New Jersey," John corrected absently, already a thousand miles away, with Einstein, and Brian Greene.

"Still out east!" Virgil persisted, incredulously. "What's wrong with UW? Laramie's only 263.54 Statute miles from here. You could visit. Princeton, New Jersey's..." the younger Tracy brother frowned down at the frosty ground, seeing maps and charts. "... uh, 1,738.32 miles away. As the crow flies. A lot further in a car! And there's no one to cook for you. You'll starve."

John cocked a blond eyebrow.

"There are planes," he said, "Phones, too. And frozen pizza. I won't shrivel up."

Undeterred, Virgil shook his head. Time to break out the big guns.

"We don't know anybody out that way."

Scott coughed a little. As he'd never been sick a day in his life, this meant he wanted their attention. His brothers quit arguing and looked over.

"Well," he ventured uneasily, "father's got an office in Manhattan, actually."

"Like I said...," Virgil muttered, "You'll be all alone."

Scott only half listened as his younger brother continued butting heads with John, like a cricket attacking a boulder. What was left of his family, he realized, was slipping away through his fingers like creek water. Soon, it might disappear altogether. Why did growing up have to mean growing apart? And losing people?

A probing wind had sprung up, from somewhere over in the Northwest Territories, felt like; bitter cold and flaying sharp. Scott shook away the cobwebs and put a hand on John's skinny shoulder.

"Promise to keep in touch, John. Anything happens, you need something, or just feel like talking, _call us._ You won't be more than three hours away, and I can make it in two and a half. Understood?"

John nodded silently, promising nothing, but Scott wasn't through.

"...And _please? _Get a damn haircut!"

For some reason, John smiled.

"Okay, Scott. I promise."


End file.
